


Like Foreplay

by MrsHamill



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-22
Updated: 2005-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-21 22:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6059635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHamill/pseuds/MrsHamill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Bruce stood in the shadows of the large, vacant room and watched Ducard hang."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Foreplay

**Author's Note:**

> I believe I've discovered why I like writing in this universe. Ducard (Ra's al Ghul) is like Qui-Gon, only more evil -- not a Sith, but with none of the gentleness that Qui-Gon seemed to carry. There will be very little kissing in _this_ universe, kiddies. As for this particular plot, you can thank (or yell at) Tem-ve, it's all her fault.

Bruce stood in the shadows of the large, vacant room and watched Ducard hang. The man was strung up by his wrists just far enough off the floor so that the tips of his boots barely reached it. The heavy-duty rope tossed over the beam and knotted around his wrists was soft enough to keep the skin from cracking open but hard enough that the sweat coming off Ducard's hands just made its grip tighter.

Ducard was wearing only his trousers and his boots. Bruce had been surprised to find Ducard's skin was softer to the touch than he had expected; the many scars crisscrossing his body were old and faded to white, almost indiscernible. The unexpected softness hadn't deterred Bruce from inflicting as many hurts as he could and now, Ducard's soft, pale skin was marked with the fading purple of bruises and tiny cuts.

"A shadow must learn to put aside discomfort," Ducard had told Bruce. "If you wish to become as one of us, you must learn to push past pain; to attack, even when in agony." 

Bruce hadn't believed him, had questioned such a maxim. There were some hurts that could not be overcome. Debilitating pain would mean debilitating movement; no attack was possible when one had been beaten to that point.

"You must also put aside your preconceptions, Bruce," Ducard had murmured and once again Bruce found himself wanting to punch that small, mocking smile. "If you learn nothing else from my tutelage, learn this: there is always something more to learn."

But Bruce had persisted in his disbelief, and so Ducard finally sighed and made a proposal. He would allow himself to be tortured, beaten and deprived for eighteen hours, anything Bruce wanted to do to him. At the end of that time, he would show Bruce how a shadow could react, could move, even when in agony.

There were times when the way Ducard spoke to Bruce reminded Bruce of something else. The look in those deep blue eyes could give lie to what the mouth was saying, and sometimes it almost felt like Ducard was... well, flirting was too light a word but there wasn't much else that fit. Predatory, perhaps. Assessing, definitely. Hungry... sometimes. Bruce didn't know whether to be pleased or frightened that a man such as Ducard might find him worthy of more than training.

Bruce had taken Ducard up on the offer. He had taken rope and bound Ducard's hands together then lifted them above the man's head, pulling him high. He had removed (ripped off) Ducard's shirts and opened the windows to let the icy mountain air in. Then, with a bamboo stave, he had proceeded to beat Ducard's body. He had used the stave for a long time and had made sure there wasn't much more than an inch of Ducard's body untouched by it.

Then, he'd let Ducard alone, to hang, in agony, for the remaining seventeen hours. 

It was nearly time to let Ducard down, to let him 'escape' and show Bruce how a Shadow reacted to torture. And Bruce really had no idea if he were eagerly anticipating or dreading the end of this particular lesson.

* * *

It was quite cold in the echoingly vacant room. Ducard had his eyes closed and breathed carefully, slowly, deeply through his nose, grateful that Bruce hadn't used the stave on his face. He was deep in a meditative trance, one he'd learned long ago. The pain was a physical presence that he could acknowledge and ignore. His shoulders screamed, the cuts seared like dry ice, the bruises pulsed in time with his heart but it was all on the peripheral, nothing he could not endure. 

If he opened his eyes, he fancied he would see his breath clouding in the room, a thin haze between himself and the far wall shrouded in shadows and the soft creak of wood and leather. But he would not open his eyes. There was no reason to.

Bruce was a fine student and a worthy opponent but he still had much to learn. He had his preconceptions, his notions of what _was_ and _wasn't_ and it was up to Ducard to break those ideas, as much as he would break Bruce's body before re-building it. And there was a sweet trap that Ducard would have to work to avoid -- how much he would enjoy breaking Bruce and remaking him, a smaller version of himself, flawed, perhaps, but all the more beautiful because of it. Bruce would be an easy and seductive snare in which to fall.

Ducard's innate time sense told him the eighteen hours were nearly up. Gently, carefully, he began a series of tiny isometric exercises designed to restore blood and function to various muscle groups. His hands would be of little help to him once the rope was removed, but that was fine. He had other methods of attack available to him and he was vaguely surprised to find that he was anticipating his release with an almost sexual excitement.

Perhaps he shouldn't work hard to avoid the trap after all.

* * *

Eighteen hours to the minute after he began Ducard's torture, Bruce unwound the rope from the wall bracket and gently let it slide down. Ducard's boots were first on the floor, then, as the rope gave him more slack, his legs buckled and he went slowly to his knees. The muscles in his arms looked strained and rigid still with a fine trembling Bruce could see and his hands, those huge hands, were swollen from trapped blood. There was no way Ducard would be able to attack in the state he was in.

For some reason, Bruce still felt wary.

As he let the last of the rope go to slide down over the support beam, Ducard crumpled more, his abused arms and wrists settling before him. Bruce winced; Ducard's hands looked like raw meat. Finally, the rope was down and Bruce knelt before Ducard to cut through the length imprisoning Ducard's wrists. Even as he got his knife out, Ducard exploded into action, shoving his head so far into Bruce's middle that all the air left Bruce in a rush and the knife went clattering. 

They fell together on the cold, concrete floor, Ducard on top. Bruce was already fighting back as furiously as he could. With one small grunt, Ducard freed one of his hands from the slack rope and shoved his forearm into Bruce's neck under his chin, scrabbling for a better grip. He couldn't hold it, however. Bruce used his own force against Ducard, shoving the man up and away, rolling them over so he was on top.  But Ducard found reserves from somewhere and continued rolling, taking Bruce and the rope with him, twisting the three of them together. 

The only sound in the room was their harsh breathing and muffled grunts as each fought for supremacy. Bruce felt equal amounts of anger and astonishment that Ducard could manage to fight after the beating Bruce had given him, after the deprivation and seventeen hours of hanging, without food, water or relief.

Ducard managed to maneuver them almost into the wall, with himself still on top. Bruce was lashing out with his feet and trying to use his arm as leverage to get them away from the wall, but Ducard was bigger and heavier and, somehow, stronger. There was little finesse in their fighting, it was ragged and brutal and Bruce used every dirty trick he'd ever learned to get Ducard off him. Neither carried weapons (save for the knife Bruce had intended to use on the rope, and which was now clear across the room) and Bruce was dressed much as Ducard was, only with a tight black t-shirt over his trousers. There was little to grab on either of them.

With a grunt, Ducard managed to get Bruce's legs trapped between his legs and Bruce's head wedged against the wall. Ducard's forearm was once again pressed against Bruce's windpipe and Bruce's hands were trapped -- one beneath him and the other between their close-pressed bodies. Bruce looked up into Ducard's eyes, looking for signs of pain or discomfort, trying to judge his next move. The deep blue eyes were cold and focused.

"Convinced?" Ducard asked, increasing the pressure on Bruce's throat. His voice was raspy and Bruce took obscure satisfaction from that.

"Can't be sustained," Bruce replied in a whisper, all that was available to him. He glowered at Ducard. "You have me because you're on top of me. As soon as you try to get up, you'll fall over and then you're dead."

Ducard sighed and shook his head. "Had I wanted to escape this situation, you would have died three minutes ago and I would be halfway down the mountain." His eyes narrowed. "I see you need a bit more persuasion."

"You aren't capable of anything more strenuous than this," Bruce protested. He was aware of Ducard's body shifting on top of him and he flexed the hand caught between them, hoping to find purchase to shove or punch. How was the man able to move like he was?

"I think I am." 

Bruce wasn't sure when he had noticed the hard, hot ridge poking him in his upper thigh, but when Ducard pressed his legs together, it became impossible to ignore. He wasn't certain what frightened him more -- that Ducard could still best him even after torture or that Ducard found the entire situation pleasant enough to be sexually excited. He looked again for a hint of what Ducard was thinking by looking into the man's eyes, but there was nothing revealed in their blue depths.

What was worse was that despite his feelings, Bruce found himself becoming excited as well. If this was Ducard's version of foreplay, what was wrong with him that he wanted to know what Ducard's version of fucking would be like?

* * *

Bruce was soft in all the right places.

Despite the pain from bruised flesh and blood-deprived extremities, Ducard found it not at all difficult to become aroused during his fight with Bruce. Sublimating injuries for him was something learned far more years ago than he was willing to admit to Bruce. He'd often found himself sexually aroused after certain missions, certain training, and he had wanted to taste Bruce since he first put eyes on the boy, beaten and bloody and incarcerated in the filthy government prison. 

There would be no gentleness between them. Bruce was certainly capable of it but it would compromise his training. Ducard must be the taskmaster and the one to dole out punishments for lessons not well learned. And Bruce was enough like him that Ducard knew he'd soon come to equate those punishments with erotic reactions. It was inevitable. 

Bruce had a hand trapped between their bodies and Ducard felt it trying to move, to seek out a vulnerable spot. He eased up the pressure on Bruce's throat and shifted, making sure Bruce felt his erection. It was obvious the moment Bruce realized what it was -- his eyes widened and his breath hitched.

"I think I am," Ducard said again, deliberately dropping the tone of his voice. He was most definitely capable of much more than Bruce thought. 

"I..." Bruce licked his lips. His soft places were becoming hard and welcoming, and Ducard smiled.

He saw Bruce hunt for words to say, saw him choose and discard and choose again, but not say anything. Good. He was learning well. What a spectacular Shadow the boy would make.

"There is no room for gentleness in the League of Shadows," Ducard said. He was almost whispering the words but knew Bruce would hear each one. "The path one must walk is a dangerous and cold one. There must be no anger, for anger is a path to destruction. It is the same with fear; allow fear to control you and you will lose."

Their eyes locked and both were silent for a long time. "Lose what?" Bruce's voice was just as soft as Ducard's.

"What do you hold most dear?"

Bruce licked his lips again and swallowed. Ducard could almost see him think, see him work out the possibilities. What would he choose? Here was the wild card in their relationship. Would Bruce choose Ducard or choose to walk away?

Ducard found himself extremely interested in the choice the boy would make. He was confidant that this moment would have repercussions for them for many years to come. What would Bruce choose? Ducard knew what he wanted Bruce to choose, but the decision had to be Bruce's alone.

The feeling in his fingers was nearly back to normal and Ducard lifted one hand to frame Bruce's face. "Be certain of your choice," he murmured. "Be certain of yourself."

After another long silence, Bruce finally nodded, slowly. "I understand."

"Do you?"

Uncertainty. "I think so."

"As I said, be certain. This is not a decision you can go back upon or one you can forget about."

Bruce nodded. That much he understood. But did he understand the rest of it? Perhaps it was time to test him.

The rope, still attached loosely to one of Ducard's wrists, had wound itself around them as they had rolled on the cold, gritty floor. With a quick move, Ducard pulled the loop from around himself and with a twist, made sure Bruce was completely captured within it. There was more doubt in those hazel eyes but no fear, and Ducard nodded slowly, pleased. "You begin to understand. This may seem to be a brutal path, Bruce, but there are ways to make even brutality alluring."

His fingers were still clumsy enough that he was glad his trousers were held together with buttons; they ripped off with a hard tug. He was not so gentle with Bruce's, whose pants were made of cloth, not leather, thankfully. The seam parted with relative ease -- though it would have been easier had the knife been closer.

Ducard adjusted them clumsily until his erection was pressing against the entrance to Bruce's body. "Let me in, Bruce," he murmured, "you're ready. Take this step to me." Then he waited for a reply. 

* * *

Bruce was as torn as the seat of his pants. Deep down, he realized he'd expected things to come to this pass, so on one level it did not surprise him. On another level, though, he was a little boy, cowering in terror. He fought to maintain control of himself and to not give in to the shaking he felt inside.

Ducard's eyes were both warm and cold and Bruce looked for answers there, but could find none. He wasn't averse to the idea of sex with Ducard; he'd been all over the world in the past six years and was no stranger to anal sex, either consensual or forced. It wasn't the sex that bothered him, it was what Ducard would do with it. How he would have control over Bruce beyond that which they had already acceded to, that which they had already come to acknowledge. Ducard was right; this was a choice that could not be ignored, could not be reneged.

He was hard. A huge part of him wanted this, wanted to let Ducard split him in half with what apparently was an extremely large erection. But that was a purely physical reaction and not what made him hesitate.

Finally Bruce realized Ducard was waiting, was not going to force this particular issue and wanted Bruce to actually voice his acquiescence. Still amazed and appalled by the fact that Ducard could function at all after the physical damage he'd incurred, Bruce had a hard time coming to grips with the idea that Ducard would actually wait before entering him, wait and request admission. But the larger part of him knew what it meant, knew how and why Ducard was asking.

The silence dragged on and Ducard seemed to be able to wait forever. An absurd thought -- how long would Ducard be able to maintain an erection, anyway? -- flitted through his mind and was dismissed. Finally Bruce swallowed and found the spit necessary to speak. "Yes," he whispered, then tried to force his lower body to relax against the invasion he was certain would come with no holding back and little, if any, finesse.

That thought, at least, was correct. Ducard did not ram, apparently did not intend to tear or rend. But his invasion of Bruce's body was inexorable nonetheless, and it burned nearly as much as it excited. Bruce swallowed again, moistening his lips, wanting and dreading a kiss from his teacher and now, apparently, his lover. But there was no kissing to be found, only a long, steady, agonizing push until Ducard was in, all the way, deep inside of Bruce in more than one way.

Bruce's breathing was coming in short gasps but Ducard was as calm as ever, even as his erection pulsed. After a long, long wait, Ducard withdrew partially only to slam back in. One huge thrust and then he was coming, only the fine trembling in his body a testament to the strength of his orgasm. Bruce finally closed his eyes and let himself go, let himself come, out of breath and spasming with the power of it.

Once he was able to regulate his breathing again, he opened his eyes. Ducard was still on top of him, still buried inside him (though Bruce could feel Ducard's prick softening), still watching him intently. 

"Do you understand now, Bruce?"

"I... I'm not sure." Indecision was a weakness. "I... no. I don't think so. Not yet."

Ducard smiled, that small, mocking smile but this time Bruce did not want to wipe it off. "Good." He began to withdraw from Bruce, pulling himself back. 

As Ducard lost his grip on the rope, Bruce found himself freed from it. "And I also don't understand how you could function after all this. I didn't go easy on you."

"No, you didn't." Ducard's voice was as mild and controlled as ever. "In fact, I think you cracked a rib on the left." He was all the way out and Bruce fought to keep a whimper of regret from escaping. "I will spend several days being quite sore, I'm sure. You will, as well, only in a different place." Ducard rolled carefully to the side and finally, Bruce could see some weakness, could see a bit of discomfort (discomfort?!) flitting across Ducard's face. 

"Several days? You should be in the hospital after what I did to you."

Ducard gave him a mild glance as he pushed himself up to his feet. "Oh, I think not."

As Bruce regained his feet, he realized that yes, he was quite sore and would be for a while. He was probably bloody, as well. He looked at Ducard, standing at ease in the freezing room. The man wore no shirt, was covered in bruises and his spent -- and yes, bloody -- dick was hanging out of his ruined pants and he _still_ looked to be in better shape than Bruce felt. "How were you able..."

"In fact, I think that might be your next lesson," Ducard said, as if Bruce hadn't spoken. His voice was as nonchalant as his bearing as he turned and walked to the door, leaving a gaping Bruce behind him.

end  



End file.
